Worth Fighting For
by Mujamo
Summary: A 'Seven' fanfiction. Chapter 2 is from Mills' POV, following Somerset's POV in chapter 1; is basically just Mills writing in his journal. An exploration of his thoughts. Rated R for violent and adult language. Feedback appreciated!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimers: The movie 'Seven' doesn't belong to me, nor does its characters. Brad Pitt belongs to that one chick he's either dating or married to now (Jennifer Aniston?). Anyway, this is some silly, pointless blurb I thought up at 1 am after watching the movie for the 50th time. Has lots of cussing but so did the movie. This has no violence or anything, but beware of some opinionated remarks. The movie made its own opinionated remarks, as well. This is basically my personal, weird tribute to a movie that asks so many damn good questions. Reviews of all kinds welcome. Writing involves free speech, so say what you want and if you feel the need to flame me, please do so. Just don't expect a reply. Thank you ^_^ 

BTW this is NOT a SLASH fic!! I am not an advocate of Somerset/Mills, so any hints that you may pick up from this story are purely your own! 

Worth fighting for 

By Mujamo 

(From Detective Somerset's POV) 

I went downtown yesterday to see him. David Mills, my former partner that was only my partner for a little over a week. The worst he got was at least five years in a correctional facility specializing in the mentally disturbed and traumatized, which, to me, isn't a punishment. After what happened to him, I call that a blessing. The man needs all the help he can get, and he has to stay there until deemed sane. It's been about four years now, and he has made a significant improvement. Which basically means that he doesn't sit in the corner, curled up in a ball, weeping for hours on end and muttering incoherently anymore. 

To see a grown man sob like that, such a gut-wrenching sound, turns my stomach inside out. It took a lot to go back the second time. And the third time. Now I've stuck with the habit of visiting him once a week. 

He doesn't have anyone else. 

Which I think is a shame, really. His parents were upper-class snobs interested in their reputation, and have only been to see him once. That was to tell him that he was no longer part of the family. I guess when he moved out, got married, and started a life of his own in the big city, they hadn't taken to that much. That happens to self-absorbed control freaks, sometimes. 

But David is making progress. He responds to my questions and actually attempts to make conversation once in awhile. But he has good days and bad days. It really makes me sad to see him shuffling around like an old man on his bad days; effects of the pills, you know. They double his medication on days when he has 'episodes', as they put it. The medication slurs his speech, too; at least that's what he says. He hates those pills, but he takes them anyway. Not because he's supposed to, but because of the one time he didn't take them. 

I don't really know why I visit him so often. Perhaps for many reasons. Perhaps I feel guilty that I didn't stop him from shooting John Doe, but perhaps I would've liked to shoot John Doe, myself. Perhaps I respect Mills for taking his revenge then and not lying in bed the rest of his nights wishing that he'd done it then, letting the bitterness eat at him, consume him, and turn him into something else; something even more dangerous. 

Or, perhaps I just want to make sure he's doing ok. Despite our differences, even then I considered him my friend. I'm still a cantankerous old man, and I'll always be one. But I'm one who has lived a long life and experienced a lot of things, and I know that I've never experienced anything as mind-blowing and horrible as Mills has. 

So, perhaps I go to let him complain to someone who's not wearing a white coat and insisting that he take his pills. Someone who talks to him like he's still normal. 

Talking to him yesterday, I realized just how much that means to him. We were sitting at the table, smoking cigarettes and chatting away like two old men in a nursing home, and he looked at me and said, "You know, Somerset…I've been thinkin'. Why the fuck do you visit me anyway? Ain't I supposed to be crazy or something?" 

"I don't think you're crazy," I replied. Honestly. I don't think he's crazy. In the end, anyone, including myself, would have done the same thing, no matter how much he or she would like to believe otherwise. However, normal he is not. 

He just laughed and leaned back, staring at me like I was crazy. "See, that's why I like it when you visit me. You're the only goddamed person in this word that doesn't think I've completely flipped my fucking lid. I still haven't figured out why." 

I laughed with him and quipped, "Maybe that's because I'm a crazy old man." 

"Hah! You got that fuckin' right." 

It's good to hear him laugh and joke around. The old David Mills is starting to come back; the one that I only knew for such a short time, but soon found that I missed terribly. 

Perhaps he'll come back one day. I'm not rushing him, and I don't think anyone else should, either. Yes it is a shame that his life was ruined, and some people might say that he has to find a reason to live and move on. I agree with this, as well. But they shouldn't expect that reason to just pop up out of nowhere so soon. It will take time, and it will take tremendous healing; healing that this world doesn't seem to want to offer to people in his case. They simply want him to ignore what happened and move on. But he can't. 

Each night he goes to sleep and sees the face of his dead wife. The face of beautiful Tracy, who was as innocent and pure as the driven snow, marred first by the realities of how harsh this world, this city, can be. Then marred by blood, the envy of another man. 

John Doe may have been trying to make a point. But the sad thing is, he was too late. Each of the deadly sins lies within everyone. The capability to kill, to indulge in different things to the point that it becomes an obsession; all of it lies within each person. And even though I live in this city and I see virtually nothing but the bad, I somehow know that the good is out there, somewhere. 

At least, I hope it is 

Just as Mills told me yesterday, "Listen up, Somerset," he said in his cocky, smart-ass voice, the one that annoyed the hell out of me at first. "This world is a piece of shit going to Hell in a dump truck. Fuck, we're probably on our way there. But you know something, and I'll tell you these sons of bitches have been cramming this shit down my throat ever since day one with therapy and shit like that; but anyway, like they say, you have to find the diamond in the rough. The one thing that shines out among the rest of the fucking shit; the ring that someone flushed down the toilet, so to speak. You know what I wanted to say to all of them? Fuck you and the horse you road in on. But I got to thinking…" 

He stopped for a moment. "Go on," I said, encouraging him to continue. This struck me as one of those 'moment of truth' moments or something like that; the kind of thing that a bunch of happy freaks like to read about at the end of a book. 

"It's just that, well, you're pretty much the only person that ever comes to visit and it beats talking to these damn doctors every day cause all they keep asking me is if I've written in my diary and gotten my feelings out, or if I've taken my goddamn pills, or shit like that. God, I hate that fucking shit." 

I nodded. There wasn't anything I could say at that point. 

"But you know what, and this is just between me and you, okay?" He leaned in closer and fumbled with his thumbs nervously. "I really want the fuck out of here," he whispered. "But I don't, either. Isn't that fucked up? It's like one minute here I am talking to you and feeling like it's a goddamn café instead of a fucking mental ward, and the next minute it's like…oh god I see her in my head and it all starts all over you know what I'm saying? Good God I sound like a crackhead, don't I?" He stared at me with pleading eyes. I remember the look in those eyes, which will haunt me until I die. 

"Why didn't I just kill myself at the beginning and saved myself the trouble?" 

"Mills…" 

He waved his hands. "No, no, I'm not going to kill myself NOW for god's sake. I'm too chicken shit to do it now. What I'm saying is, I must have had, in the deepest part of whatever was left of my mind at that point, some reason to live, right? Otherwise I would have stuck the gun in my mouth at the same time I shot that fucking bastard." 

I nodded, seeing his point. 

"So what's my reason to live?" he asked. "What fucking reason do I have to live?" 

I sighed. How the hell was I supposed to answer that question? So I answered it the only way I knew how. 

"That's something you're going to have to figure out on your own." 

He laughed bitterly. "Goddamit, Somerset, couldn't you give me a better answer?" 

Go figure. But it pissed me off; so I stuck my finger in his face and replied, "Listen up, Detective Mills. I've only contemplated suicide once in my entire life, so how am I supposed to answer that? Do you know what kept me from killing myself?" 

"What?" 

"The fact that I'd be dead. As shitty as this world can be, it still has a hold on you whether you like it or not. It's different for everyone else. Some people don't have a strong attachment to this world, and only god knows what mine is. For me, it's the same as this damn city. I couldn't leave even when I wanted to." 

He nodded and shrugged, deciding to drop it for the time being. "Yeah I guess so." And that was the end of that conversation. 

But what he said really got me wondering why he didn't pull the trigger on himself that day. I suppose perhaps a good reason was because he had emptied his gun entirely into John Doe. But a desperate man will resort to desperate things, and sometimes saving the last bullet for yourself can be one of those desperate things. 

No matter what the reason, I can't help but be glad that he didn't save the last bullet for himself. 

I suppose it's something I'll never figure out. 

* * *

Bad ending? Yes, no? Reviews would be nice, and maybe, perchance I'll do another if I am so inspired. 


	2. Swimming with Sharks

A/N:  I was real tempted to add a fluffy, semi-happy ending to this, but in all reality, I like it the way it is.  I'll be straightforward…there is no ending.  It leaves things open for speculation.  It's basically about there being a lack of closure…and that's why there is none for this part.  Not all stories have a happy ending, yet some do.  However, this second part was begging to be written, and I eventually decided that a journal entry was the way to go.  What better way to get Mills' real thoughts out than for him to write it down?  Again, sorry about all the cussing; comes with the territory, you know.  And Mills doesn't belong to me.  Such a shame.

            (From Mills' POV)

            _Alright, here I am writing in this stupid diary or journal or whatever the hell it is.  I actually write in it at least twice a week or more depending on what's going on in this fucked-up head of mine.  I just like to give the doctors a bunch of hell because it makes me feel like my old asshole self.  Maybe they realize that…who knows.  _

_            Well, why am I writing today?  Let's see…I guess I just want to write a bunch of shit that Somerset and me were talking about the other day. Okay, so it was about two weeks ago.  I've been thinking about what he said to me, about this world 'having a hold on you' and all that shit.  That was his reason for not committing suicide.  _

_You know, maybe I'm a naïve idiot but I never would have imagined Somerset ever contemplating suicide.  That man has more balls than someone who swims in a tank with starving, big-ass sharks.  Of course, someone who does that isn't going to have much left by the time the sharks get done with him.  Somerset, he's done with the sharks, and he still came out in tact.  _

_I'd never tell him, but I always looked up to him because of that fact.  Much more now than back then because I really was a naïve idiot and I had no fucking clue how dangerous the sharks really were.  I jumped right in and got my head fucking chomped off.  Lucky me._

_Well anyway, back to what he said the other day.  Now, I don't claim to be a fucking psychologist, but I've been thinking about it and I've decided it's not the world that has a hold on us.  I'm not real sure why I think that.  Maybe it's because this world doesn't give a shit about any of us.  This world could care less if children go hungry, or if some fucking cocksucker goes around killing a whole bunch of people just to preach a sermon, or if that same fucking cocksucker takes away everything…everything that I cherished in this goddamn world._

_This world doesn't give a rat's ass.  So why the hell would it have a hold on us, if only to keep us here to enjoy the misery?_

_We're the ones that hold on to the world.  Like I asked Somerset, why didn't I kill myself at the same time I shot that fucking bastard?  I seriously think that it was because somewhere deep inside this fucked-up head of mine, I had some reason to live.  I had a hold of something…something worth living for.  Don't ask me what the hell it is, because I have no fucking clue.  But my point is that this world gave up on me a long time ago, just like my wonderful, loving parents.  Fuck them, and fuck this world, anyway.  _

_            The worst thing about this is I still feel like there should be some sort of closure.  It wasn't enough to blow that thing's brain out; I want to make him feel what I still feel when I think of Tracy.  I want him to feel like his insides have turned inside out.  I want him to feel like if he sees her face one more time in his mind, he'll finally take that last step off the bridge of sanity and plummet into total darkness forever.  I want him to stay in that darkness, tormented by nightmares and bloody visions.  I want to torture him, myself.  I want to rip his heart out and make him eat it.  I want to cut off all his limbs and beat him to death with them.  _

_            But I can't, because I already killed him.  It's not my problem anymore.  And I don't know what I can do to get closure.  Maybe I'm just restless from sitting in here all the time with nothing to do but watch the other insane freaks walk around in their own little worlds._

_            Which reminds me…I've sort of made a friend in here.  A sharp, foul-mouthed girl whose name I don't know yet, because she won't tell me.  She actually won't tell me much more than 'fuck you' and 'shut up, dickhead,' but for some odd reason she she's started to smile when she says it.  This makes me laugh.  Hey, I'm insane, too, so what difference does it make?  It's nice to laugh about something even if it is stupid._

_            She finally opened up one day, though, and she told me that she killed her husband.  I haven't asked why, but I don't need to.  Her eyes got real dark and she hugged her stomach so tight I thought she was in pain.  Hell, _**I**_ was in pain just looking at her.  So I figure I don't need to ask anymore questions to set her off, like some nurse did the other day.  That was a fucking interesting sight, believe me.  This chick did some damage, and not just to the nurse, but to the chair she'd been sitting in, too.  _

_Anyway, she never asked me why I was in here.  But we also play cards.  Gives us something to do.  You'd be surprised how many of the freaks in here can still remember how to play a game of poker.  She makes fun of the crazy freaks in here, too, including me and including herself.  Hell, they probably make fun of us.  We're all crazy so we all can make fun of each other, dammit._

_            Well anyway back to the previous subject about having things to live for and all that shit.  I'm not even going to say that it's the little things that are worth living for.  If I wanted to live for the little things I would've become a janitor or some shit like that with no career in it at all.  I want to believe that deep down I knew what I was getting into when I decided to become a detective, but I really don't think I did.  Do I regret it?  Yes and no.  I regret what happened to Tracy.  There are a million 'if-only' scenarios that have run through my brain, and none of them are any good because it's all fucking over now.  _

_            But I don't regret my decision to become a detective.  If I get out of here before I'm old and decrepit, I've been thinking about going back.  I have no fucking clue if they'd take me back, but it's worth a shot.  _

_            So maybe that's what I'm living for.  Who the fuck knows?_

_            Good god this has been a fucked-up journal entry.  I really hope to God that no one reads these things.  Surely these assholes in the white coats don't give a fuck what we write about…they just want to stick to their fucking procedures, and if we behave like good little psychopaths, we'll get out just  in time for more of us to be admitted._

_            Anyway, I still can't believe that Somerset still comes in here to see me.  I annoyed the hell out of him when I was on the job; it's a wonder he didn't grab the gun and blow my fucking head off, too.  Actually, he never would have done that.  He's not a trigger-happy lunatic like I was, anyway.  Man, I tell you, I was itching to blow something away, too.  I never would've admitted it to anybody, but I just wanted to pull that fucking trigger and feel the vibration in my hands.  I wanted to hear that loud **BANG**, and I really didn't care whether I was shooting at something or not.  I was a trigger-happy lunatic, and I think Somerset knew it.  He knew I'd pull that trigger that day.  I could see it in his eyes.  It wasn't just because of that, though…it was because he knew I didn't care about the consequences.  He could see that, too.  He could see murder in my eyes.  The murder of all those people; the murder of my beautiful, sweet Tracy; and most important of all, the murder of that motherfucker whose voice I keep hearing over and over again in my head.  He just wouldn't fucking shut up!  I wanted to shut him up for good.  I wanted to shut that motherfucker up so bad that his grandma would feel it.  _

_            But that's over now.  He's gone.  That's what they keep telling me, anyway.  But I know he'll be in my head forever…that awful, horrible, calm voice whispering to me, telling me how good Tracy was.  How delicious.  How sweet she sounded, pleading for her life, and for…for…the baby…_

_            Shit, now I'm crying again.  Getting fucking tear stains all over the damn paper…shit.  I've been crying like a fucking leaky faucet lately.  Why can't I just stop?  Why won't it stop?  _

_            Make it stop, please._

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